Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Norma
the milk cow and her calf Little Dude are let back out to pasture. In the
evenings, Greg rides Blue out to collect them and bring Norma in to be milked. The
morning milking responsibility is usually split between Darby and Sami, me,
Jesse, Greg and Morgan. But on Thursday, Greg will go with Karen to the farmer’s
market and it will be up to me to do the evening milking. It’s on the weekly
chore list with my name typed in bold letters.

Wednesday
night at dinner I say, "Greg, do you think in the morning you could leave
Norma in?"

He
doesn't say no, but he says, "You could saddle up the grey horse and ride
out to get her. That would be fun."

Yeah,
I could do that.

The
next morning, after I’ve dumped the compost into the composting pile, I go over
and help Greg as he’s milking, first handing him the bucket of hot water and a washcloth
to wash Norma's udders and then plugging in the generator to the pump.

"How
bad of an idea is it for me to ride bareback?" I ask. Saddling up and
gearing up is making the evening chore seem like an ordeal to me.

"Not
a bad idea at all," he says. "If you have time this afternoon you
could ride Johnnie around here in the corral to see how he does."

After
my morning chores, I take a carrot out to where Johnnie, Louie, and Senator are
grazing. I give out bits of carrot to all. Then I halter Johnnie, the grey
horse, and lead him to the corral. There, I bridle him and try to get him to
stand lengthwise alongside the fence so that I can climb on up. He doesn't go
for it. So then I lead him to an overturned watering tub and use that to gain
enough height so that I can slide a leg over and scramble onto his back.

Johnny
hasn't been ridden in weeks. He kicks up his heels in protest and tries to
fight the bit. I walk him around the corral until I’m comfortable that he's at
least pretending I'm in charge. I take him a little ways outside the corral and
then I lead him back to his pasture home. There, I dole out more carrots and
then go back to do more chores.

My
legs shake as I walk to the lodge. Riding bareback is about leg control. I must
have been hanging on pretty tightly.

At
lunch, I tell Greg what I've done and how Johnnie behaved. He thinks the
evening will be fine. He says that riding with just a halter is also a lot of
fun.

In
the afternoon as Jesse and I are cleaning up after lunch, I ask, "You want
to go out and ride a little?"

"Yes,"
she says, a bright light in her eyes.

Johnnie
and Louie are best buds. Inseparable. Somewhat codependent. I'm not sure if it
will be easier or harder if we take them both when the time comes to get Norma.
For now, for our afternoon jaunt, Jesse and I decide to ride bareback and with
only halters. It seems so much more symbiotic. Johnnie is calmer with Louie
there with him.

We
ride around the corral some. Louie bucks a bit to see if Jesse will fall off.
She won't. So he settles down. "You want to ride up to the gate?" she
asks.

"Yeah,
sure," I say.

We
head out the open corral gate and up toward the main ranch gate. Once there, we
decide we’re not quite done. It's fun. It’s a sunshiny day, the landscape is
breathtaking, and we’re riding horses. Moments like this are perfect ones. It's
like we’re getting a small vacation in the middle of our work day.

We
mosey across the field, pass the stream, and weave through some trees. On the
way back, we pick it up to a trot. Louie has a faster gait and Johnnie, not
liking being left behind, steps into a gallop. Louie isn't feeling it. He bucks
up. Jesse keeps her seat. "He hit me in the chin," she says, over her
shoulder.

"Ouch,"
I say.

The
knot I've tied to make Johnnie's halter work as reins slips loose and I slide
off and walk the last few feet to their makeshift, electric fence corral. Jesse
and I disconnect the electricity and put them inside. We hand out carrots to
everyone, reconnect the electricity, and then walk back to do our afternoon
chores.

With
my two trial runs, I feel set for tonight's roundup. More or less. Pretty much.

Greg
and Karen go to the farmer’s market.

Jesse
and I stay behind and work. While we’re setting up for dinner, I tell Laura,
"Greg says it's easy, that Norma comes right in. That probably means you
should be standing by with the camera or a video camera. It could end up being
hilarious." She says she'll take pictures.

After
dinner, it's go time. Jesse and I set up the milking equipment. We bring Louie
and Johnnie in so we can mount up by way of the overturned water tub. Right or
wrong, we're riding bareback and only using halters to guide.

We
ride across the field.

Norma
is a Holstein. She's big and white with black patches over her coat. She's easy
to spot. There, next to her, small with the same black and white coat is the Little
Dude. At the sight of us, Norma stands up. We get behind her and begin the slow
journey back toward the barn.

Johnnie
likes to follow. He wants to be right behind Louie. Nose to tail close. I have
to work, turning him in a tight circle, to get him to flank Norma. I manage to get
him to go where I want him to go. We’re doing just fine. We’re over halfway
there. For a split second I think we’re going to make it in as easy as Greg had
said it would be. But then, the horses get it into their heads that they want
to get home faster. They start to trot and Norma gets spooked. She darts off to
the left and I can't get Johnnie going fast enough to cut her off. That ‘ol milk
cow heads back to the pasture with the Little Dude and Jesse and Louie
following.

Johnnie
fights me, fights for control of his head. I turn him in a tight right-hand
circle and try to nudge him back out after all the others. He's not going for
it. He takes us into the corral. He wants to call it done for the day. Me too, pal. For minutes, five, ten,
three, fifteen? I don't know how long, I turn him and tap my heels into his sides,
but he won't leave the corral. He’s dug his hooves in and is determined to
stay.

Jesse
is out there, somewhere, chasing Norma on her own. It's not even really her
chore. "Come on, Johnnie," I say, nudging, circling, pleading. Jesse
is out there, somewhere, possibly carried away into the sunset on a fast-moving
Louie. For an instant, I consider abandoning Johnnie and going out on foot, but
that would admit defeat. That would teach Johnnie that I'm a pushover. I'm not
a pushover.

I
turn Johnnie toward the open gate and this time he goes through. We make a very
slow way back across the pasture. I spur him into the occasional trot, but he
prefers to walk. I consider pushing him to canter, but I'm not sure I can
handle the speed. I'm not sure I want to.

Finally,
there ahead in the trees, on the far side of the pasture, I see a flash of
black and white. It's Norma. Behind her like a pro is Jesse still on Louie. She
gets Norma going in the right direction and I hold Johnnie back until I can get
into a better flanking position.

Suddenly,
like a miracle, we’re all pointed in the right direction.

The
horses are impatient. They want their heads to run on home. Johnnie starts up a
rocky trot and then lengthens his stride into a gallop. I hang on for dear
life, grasping his mane and trying to keep my seat. I pull on the halter and
slow him down. Ahead of me, Jesse is hauling back on Louie’s halter for all
she's worth, trying to keep him behind Norma. That crazy cow will spook if we
get too close. Neither of us wants to start all over again.

By
a cocktail of sheer luck and a lot of work, we get Norma into the corral. We
follow behind her on the horses and then dismount as if it were all in a day’s
work. Easy. We secure the horses’ halters to the hitching post and leave them
to wait until after the milking is done.

We
only get a half gallon of milk. It seems like a lot of work for a little bit of
milk.

We
let Norma back out, put the horses away, and get the milk bottled up and all the
equipment washed and put in its place.

We’re
both exhausted as we walk back toward our cabin that evening. "You always
see those pictures of milkmaids leading milk cows placidly in to be
milked," I say. "Why can't it be like that?"

"Yeah,
that's not how it is," Jesse says.

Jesse
and I do our chores together. We're a team, but not codependent like Louie and
Johnnie. We walk on home past the field filled with cows. We’re both thinking
that tomorrow it’s Jesse's chore to do the morning milking. We're both thinking
that we might use bridles this time. I'm thinking maybe a saddle too.

I
go to bed with the saying, "Sufficient for the day are the troubles therein"
in the forefront of my mind. But it's hard not to plan ahead, to think about
doing that all over again, to worry about what tomorrow will bring.

I
sleep the sleep of the innocent and the hard worked; full and deep. I wake up
thinking about milkmaids.

Dressed
for the day, I shoulder my backpack and head out the door. In the pasture I see
the white and black figure of Norma the milk cow. I wonder, I think. With that thought, I start her way. When I get
close, she turns her head and eyes me with those big eyes. "You want to
have a milk cow with pretty eyes," Greg has said more than once. He loves
the cows.

"Come
on, mama," I say.

She
gets to her feet. The Little Dude, his sleep interrupted, gets up too. Norma
begins to walk in the direction of the barn. Slowly. I walk behind her, also
slowly, moving right to left as she thinks about getting off track. But she
knows where to go, what to do. What she's supposed to do. This way, with the
calf trailing behind, we make it all the way to the corral.

Jesse
comes out of the kitchen to see what will happen. Greg and Boss the dog stop their
work and watch our progress. Greg shrugs. "That works," he says.
"It's not as much fun though." I've
had an awful lot of fun, I think, I'll
take this for now. Boss gets behind the Little Dude who has balked at the
gate and gets him in. "Good job, Boss," Greg tells him.

As
Jesse and I are getting the milking stuff together, she says, "I'm so glad
you walked her in. I've been contemplating that all morning."

"Me
too," I say. "Since last night. I didn't know if I could handle an
adventure this early."

We
get nearly four gallons of milk from Norma. After her udder is slack and we've
undone the milking suction cups, Norma lets out a big sigh.

"Thank
you, mama," we tell her. She and the Little Dude head back out to graze.
Jesse and I pull the milk cart back to the lodge and began the process of
bottling and cleaning. We work contentedly. The hardest part of our day is now
over.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Three
Great Horned owls live out behind the meadow cabin where Jesse and I live. The
first time I saw the baby, sitting fuzzy and small on a low lying branch, I
dubbed him Baby Ewok. Later, when I saw the parent owl, age marked by the
darker feathers, I named him (who is probably a her) Chewbacca. It wasn’t until
later that I realized there were two babies. I can’t tell them apart so Jesse
and I call them the Ewok Twins.

At
dusk, when Jesse and I return home from our work day, the owls are often
sitting on the other side of the creek perched on their favorite branch. Too
immature to talk just yet, the Ewok Twins squeak their comments. They still
have to learn how to say, “Who who, who who who?”

Jesse
says they look like humans in owl suits—their oddly human shaped eyes watching
us as we come around the corner of the cabin and head into our respective rooms.
Even the young ones seem wise in their silence. In their observation of us.

Most
nights, I sit on my bed to read with the pillows bunched up behind me against
the metal headboard. The window is to my left and I catch movement, the falling
light of the day, and sometimes the glimmer of stars out of the corner of my
eye. Chewbacca likes to sit on my roof and on the porch. When he moves, taking
flight to hunt or find a better sitting place, his shape casts a dark passing
shadow that makes me flinch with its size and suddenness.

It’s
at night that Chewbacca must teach the Ewok Twins the facts of owl living, of owl
life. Hunting, perching, watching, hooting, observing, becoming wise. It’s at
night, after dark that they have dance parties on our roofs. Jesse and I have
yet to be invited.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

These
past weeks I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen making yogurt, kefir,
cheese, and kombucha. My life, all the work, seems to be focused in on
containers. So many containers. For instance, the milk goes from the cow to the
pump bucket, from the pump bucket to a closed lid container, from the closed
lid container to a strainer, and then from there into bottles. Then, if I'm
making yogurt, it goes into a pan to heat up and cool down. From the pan to the
thermal containers where the cultured milk sits for hours at a time. Then I
transfer it to a strainer so that the yogurt separates from the whey. The whey
goes into one bowl, the yogurt into another.

Don't
get me started on what happens if I have to pasteurize. There's even more
containers for that process. Ranch life is simply the science of moving things
from one place to the other.

Nighttime
rises like bread into daybreak. The workdays are long, tiring, and seem
somewhat never ending. By the time our half-day off comes neither Jesse nor I
feel up to any real excursions. Karen always asks if we’re going to go out and
hike. Even that sounds like too much work. Being still, sitting down, taking
naps, those are the treats our days off offer.

The
work we do is varied and often times interesting. I don't mind it. Not really.
Especially knowing that it's temporary. It’s ever-changing enough to satisfy my
short attention span. And yet, I often find myself thinking of the quote by an
author (Anne Lamott perhaps?) where she said that she wrote, was a writer,
because she wasn't fit for any other kind of work.

I
feel that way, physically, as my wrists begin to protest the effort I call on
them to give. Even while my muscles are hardening and my endurance is
lengthening, I still have to try and pretend that I don't have arthritis. No
one wants to be seen as unfit in the eyes of others. I don’t. I gauge the
strain and treat the returning inflammation the best I can. I find myself
counting down the days and adding up the weeks to see how much longer I have to
last.

When
I remember to look up and appreciate the views around me and remind myself to enjoy
this time, the summer sun, this place, I also find myself looking forward to my
fall trip to Europe with Jesse and the upcoming winter back at the Darwin,
alone with all the animals, alone with that crazy old cat. I'm not fit for this
kind of work long-term. The body that I push day after day needs more sleep
than I give it, needs more rest than I have time for, seems to be only fit for
certain things.

"What
about your own work?" my brother Phinehas asks on the phone one night.

"I
don't have time for that," I tell him. "I knew that I wouldn't for
the summer." The words, characters, and stories can wait for winter like I’m
waiting for it. They’ll have to.

One
afternoon, Jesse and I drive from the ranch up the road to the spring to
harvest watercress. "It's like the kind you get at the store," Karen tells
me by text. I park on the side of the road and Jesse and I walk past the
cemetery and along the low banks that contain the spring.

"I've
never bought cress at the store," I admit. I stop in my tracks to look up
pictures of watercress on my phone, to try and match those pictures with what
we see growing around us. I feel I should know more about wild vegetation and
vegetation in general, store-bought or otherwise, being the vegetarian that I
am and the raw foodist that I was for so long. "I'm a terrible vegetarian,"
I tell Jesse.

I
send Karen a picture of what we think might be the proper plant. Karen says no,
that’s not it. It will be small and round leafed and growing in the water.
"I thought it looked like big leaf lettuce," I say to Jesse.

We
walk up farther. I’ve forgotten to bring bear spray and I'm on alert. Though
what I would do if a bear charged us is hard to say. Fortunately, we don't
encounter any bears.

Around
the bend of the land, there in the water, just past the spring box (like Karen
had said in her directions) is the round leafed watercress, growing aptly in
the water. We collect what we can and head back. We’ve only gone a mile, if
that, from the ranch but it feels like an excursion. We’ve driven outside the
gates. Outside the property line. Up the road. The mountains loom in front of
us and behind us, the sky shows clear and blue. The wind talks wildly through
the trees. It would be a nice day for a picnic. I should have brought my
camera.

The
days go on. Jesse and I milk Norma the cow, pull grass from the tree beds,
plant grass in the bare spots in the lawn, pour things from container to
container, clean cabins and bathrooms, empty dishwashers, wash dishes, and share
anecdotes, dreams, and the present moment.

Tom,
our antisocial coworker, comes in one morning exuding frustration. He feels
overworked and upset that the chickens were moved too close to his irrigation
line. "I shouldn't have to tell you this," he tells me, tells Jesse,
tells Laura, tells the room. "I'm at the end of my rope."

When
he's gone, I say, "Tom needs his brother to come work with him." I
don't know if he has a brother but I
do know that sharing chores and working alongside someone makes the work seem
less arduous. More fun. What I wouldn't trade about this summer is the work
time with Jesse. Our conversations and the camaraderie. I think that if I had
enough containers (containers always containers) I would bottle up these
moments and then refrigerate them so that I could take them out and enjoy them
later on.